Constantine: A Long Way Down
by GoAskAlice137
Summary: John Constantine. His name is known throughout the world of the occult. So, what happens when he crosses paths with a Hell-spawn half-breed who seems to be holding a nasty grudge? When the rising darkness forces them together, how will he, Zed, and Chas fair with their powerful new ally? Or will she be the end of them all? R&R **Prologue and Ch. 1 UPDATED 6/14/2015**
1. Prologue

**_**Note to the Reader! Important! PLEASE READ!** _**

**_The Prologue and Chapter 1 have been updated (6/14/2015). Please re-read if you have not already. Important details have been added._**

_Constantine: A Long Way Down _begins where Episode 13: "Waiting for the Man" (sadly, the final episode of the series) left off.

Full Summary:

John Constantine. Exorcist. Demonologist. Petty Dabbler of the Dark Arts. His name is known throughout the world of the occult. So, what happens when he crosses paths with a Hell-spawn half-breed who seems to be holding a nasty grudge? Her name is Helena Saint, and John Constantine holds a very special place in her blackened heart. When the rising darkness forces them together again after 10 years, how will John, Zed, and Chas fair with their powerful new ally? Or will she be the end of them all?

This story is rated "T" for violence, strong language, and some sexual content. Some later chapters maybe rated "M".

* * *

**Prologue:**

The whole place reeked of blood.

Quinn wrinkled his noise the instant his feet alighted on the rotten planks. His massive ashen wings, gnarled to the point of deformation, cast a twisted shadow on the dusty stained glass. They folded down behind his back, vanishing like smoke, as he glanced around coolly at the mutilated bodies that littered the wooden floor. "Well," He stated flatly, turning to the defiled pulpit with a grimace, "It looks like somebody had fun."

Helena Saint grinned at him as she reclined on the altar, hands clenched in the bloodstained cloth and a lollipop sticking out from between her teeth. His eyes could not help but linger on the overly prominent, pearl canines as she pulled the cherry sucker from between her crimson lips with a satisfied 'pop', pointing it at him playfully. "What can I say?" She purred, her wild gilded locks cascading of the table's edge, "Karma is a bitch."

Quinn rolled his eyes as he gingerly stepped over the corpse at his feet, "What's with the _Blow-pop_?"

"I quit smoking."

He chuckled darkly, "So, instead of lung cancer, you're just going to rot the teeth out of your head? Why trade a vice for vice? What does it really matter then?"

She glared at him, twirling the sweet on her tongue and wishing it were a cigarette, "Cut the 'holier than thou' bull, will you?" She sat up, running him through with her razor sharp gaze, "I swear, you Nephillim are insufferable."

"Yes…" Quinn sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair, "Because you Hell-spawn are so much easier to get along with."

Helena narrowed her eyes, sliding off the platform and swinging her hips as she strode towards him. "Well," She chirped, "I would say so." She dug her elegant fingers into his shirt, pulling his face downward and smirking up at him ruthlessly, "At least we know who we are. And we don't play at being anything else."

"And I do?"

"Sorry, Sweetheart." She chuckled, "But, we both know that you're no angel."

"Hmm…" He bent his neck forward, rising to her challenge, "Tell me something then, Devil-child. What are you doing here, playing hero?"

She scowled, shoving him back. "My father may have been a demon," She hissed, "But, I do have a soul."

Quinn looked down to his feet, guilt coursing through him. "Hel, I'm—"

"The girl has locked herself in the basement." She spat, turning away from him, "You'll need to use that divine charm of yours to get her out. She won't open the door for me. I think she's convinced I'm the devil they were about to sacrifice her to."

He glanced around at the bloody scene around him, muttering to himself, "I can't imagine why."

Helena shrugged her shoulders, silk strands bouncing around her cheekbones, "Like I said, I am what I am."

Quinn watched her closely as she began to wander the old church, studying the stained glass images in the windows and running her fingers along the tops of the dusty pews. Whatever fury that had possessed her to massacre the heretics around them was still now. The demon had been sated and the girl now remained.

She stopped in front of the altar, looking up calmly at the rotting goat's head that had replaced the head of Christ on the cross. "Do you think they get it?"

Quinn had begun to wonder himself, moving from corpse to corpse, examining her gruesome handy work. "Who gets what?" He asked, no longer paying attention to what she was doing.

"Do you think they understand?" Helena elaborated, still staring up at the fly infested beast, "I mean, do you think they really _know_ what they're doing? Who they're really sacrificing to?"

He did not immediately answer. Quinn had stopped at the foot of the stairs, his gut tightening as he stared down at the burnt out husk of the high priest. What was left charred black, his eye sockets empty, and his mouth was stretched in a silent scream.

He did not look up from the smoldering corpse, "I doubt it. If they knew…I mean if they really knew the consequences going in. No one would ever worship _them_." He sighed heavily, pinching his nose. Why was it the burning bodies always smelled like barbequed pork? He gagged slightly, "Did you have to burn this one?"

Helena's attention instantly snapped to him, her face set like stone and her coal black eyes suddenly sparking to life, smoldering red like glowing embers, "No."

"Right," Quinn winced, turning away from the priest, only to find Helena moving briskly towards the doorway. He hurried to fall in step with her as she threw open the heavy doors and stepped out into the cold.

There was no moon tonight. What little light the stars gave was being quickly swallowed by the building storm clouds. The wind tore at them as Helena turned into it, her golden curls whipping around her like a flame growing as the air blew on it. She set course from the graveyard, not wanting to risk the main road. Quinn stayed on her heels until she had reached the iron barrier that surrounded the tombstones.

She spun around, raising a brow in query and asking icily, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Quinn paused, and then shook his head, "No. I'll get to her in a minute." He grinned at her widely, like he knew something that she didn't and was lording it over her.

After a few moments a silence, she snapped, "What?"

His toothy grin widened, "You are so easy."

"Shut up!" She turned to leave him, but stopped when she felt his hand lock around her wrist.

"Hel…" He breathed her name, pulling her back to him, "_We found it_."

She stopped mid-stride, her eyes widening in surprise as her face softened, "You found it?"

"Yes." He laughed, "We found it! Hel, we found it!"

Helena's heart began to race and her breathing quickened. "We found it?" She repeated breathlessly, unable to believe her ears. "Wha—? Where? Where is it?"

"The P.I. Jake hired, he come through," Quinn told her, gripping her hands together, "He tracked it to an auction house in London."

"London? We got to go! We need to go now!"

She made to pull away again, but he tightened his grip, forcing her to stay put. "No, no…" Quinn chuckled nervously, "Hel, the book isn't in London anymore."

"But, you just said—!"

"Let me finish." He asserted. "He tracked it to an auction house in London, where it was sold two years ago."

"Two years!" Helena cried heatedly, "How does that help us now?"

Quinn felt the skin of his palms start to burn and he quickly released her. "I'm getting to that!" He exclaimed, shaking his palms in pain, "It helps us, because of who bought it. Jasper Winters."

"Jasper Winters?" She narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. "The psychic?"

"Yeah."

"I heard he was dead."

"He is." Quinn confirmed with a nod. "He died a year ago, during an exorcism in Newcastle, England."

"You've lost me again." Helena sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Quinn looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Well… _actually…"_ He coughed nervously, "Jake thinks you might know where he kept it."

"What?" She frowned, "How would I know where he kept the book? I never met Jasper Winters."

Quinn went very quiet. He just stared at her with a pained look in his eyes.

Helena stared back at him, trying the read his tightening features, when it suddenly struck her. Her stomach dropped as she inhaled sharply. "Quinn," She asked softly, dread spreading through her, "who was the exorcist?"

Quinn dropped his gaze, refusing to look at her.

"Quinn?"

He brought his gaze back to her, and breathed, "John Constantine."

Helena's heart skipped a beat and she felt abruptly sick. She turned away from Quinn quickly, as the color drained from her face, clamping her hands together to stop the tremors. "Jasper Winters…" She heaved, "Was John Constantine's mentor."

"We know that Winter's had a vault." Quinn pushed gently, "A magical safe house. We think he would've taken the book there. We've looked for it. But, everyone who tries seems to end up going in circles. The reigning theory is that it's been warded so that nobody can find it, except for those who already know where it is. And, well…" He sighed heavily, "Jake thinks that Constantine might have taken you there. _Before._"

"Yeah." Helena swallowed thickly, digging her nails into her skin and staring straight ahead, "I know where it is."

Quinn nodded slowly, "I know you have a history. You could just tell me where—"

"No." She snapped with more force than was necessary, turning back to him, "No."

"You're sure?" He asked, eyes full of worry, "Hel, I can do this for you."

"I'm sure." She stated vehemently. "It's been ten years. Ancient history. I can do it. I'll get the book. I'll finish this. I have to finish this."

"Okay." He nodded again, biting his lip, "Okay."

Helena glanced down at her shaking hands, "Do you know where he is? Constantine?

"Yeah." Quinn gave her a small smile, finally able to give her some good news, "Word is, Constantine had himself locked up in the loony bin. Whatever happened in Newcastle… It must have been bad." He moved to rest a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but stopped, feeling the heat rolling off her in waves. He took a step back, "All you have to do is go in, get the book, and bring it back. That's got to be the easy part, right?" He tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled chuckle, "Easy as pie."

Helena shook her head at him pitifully. "Things are never easy when John Constantine is involved."


	2. Chapter 1

**_**Note to the Reader! Important! PLEASE READ!** _**

**_The Prologue and Chapter 1 have been updated (6/14/2015). Please re-read if you have not already. Important details have been added._**

_Constantine: A Long Way Down _begins where Episode 13: "Waiting for the Man" (sadly, the final episode of the series) left off.

This story is rated "T" for violence, strong language, and some sexual content. Some later chapters maybe rated "M".

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

All she could see were his wide, bright blue eyes.

Helena bolted up right in her sleeping bag, the terrified eyes of ten year old Tommy McCauley blinding her thoughts. They stared up at her, pleading and confused, struggling to comprehend why? Why was this happening to him? Why was _she_ doing this to him?

It seemed like every time Helena shut her eyes now, she would find herself back there, standing over the child size bed surrounded by superhero posters, with the Scooby-doo nightlight casting her in a monstrous shadow. Tommy's small frame had been hidden under the comforter, his panicked eyes peering out from a gap in the fold as she approached and tore the covers away. Pouncing on him as he scrambled to escape, the feel of the knife piercing into him was still as jarring today as it had been in that instant. There had been no resistance from his flesh as the blade slid under his ribs, his body instantly going limp. Those brilliant eyes of his had stared up at her in query, unable to understand.

The hot blood on her hands had jolted her awake. The fog in her mind was blown away, and the face of the Adversary had disappeared, leaving only those beautiful, petrified eyes. And the air had suddenly been filled with an ungodly wail that rose from her throat, and ripped through the silent house like at tempest, cradling the boy's wilted form to her chest and rocking him back and forth in desperation.

Helena wiped the cold sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, allowing herself a deep breath to easy her nerves as she pulled her bare legs from the bag and stood. The wooden floor was refreshingly rough under her feet and the morning air bitterly chill as it snaked its way along her skin. She stretched her arms above her head, her muscles tight from a night on the floor.

Grabbing her jeans from the pile she had left them in, she pulled them on hurriedly, and the quickly threw a tank top over her head. The faded cotton clung to her navel as she adjusted her bra underneath with a discontented sigh.

The ride to Atlanta had been a long and brutal one. Even with her motorcycle cruising at ninety most of the way, it had taken five days of rough riding to get here from California. She was sore and petulant, and even after a night's rest, her eyes drooped threateningly. Coffee was a must have this morning, but unfortunately she had none in her knapsack, which irritated her more as she looked around at the bare wooden walls freshly scared with intricate warding.

She had wandered the city for a full day, never stopping for more than a few minutes in any one place, until she had taken up residence here, in the attic of an abandon cathedral downtown. Its flock had long since fled, the Shepherd having left his post. The wolves of society have descended on this once holy place, now empty save for the vagrants of the city. It seemed appropriate to her, if not ironic, that a Hell-spawn should rest in a crumbling house of God. It had indeed been defiled with clear signs of satanic on-goings. Inverted pentagrams were tagged in red on many of the stone columns, and vulgar words praised the First of the Fallen and beckoned him in.

It seemed a suitable place to stay for the next few nights.

The chapel itself was occupied by a diverse community of the city's homeless. The instant she had stepped through the doors, they parted like the Red Sea before her, cowering in the cobwebbed pews. They could sense what was inside her; the writhing, burning blackness that her father had passed to her upon conception. It had festered under her skin for that past twenty four years, growing into a boiling rage that threatened every day to consume her.

Helena had learned a long time ago that most people were too self-involved to sense the evil in the world around them. Lucifer himself could jump up, do a little jig, smack them on the ass, and they would just continue to stare at their smart phones in a mindless stupor.

But, the vagabonds of the world were more connected to the happenings around them. They had yet to be corrupted be the new gods of technology, leaving them more open to things that others remained blind to. They could see her dark aura, and feel the blackness rolling off her like heat from a flame. Instinct would tell them to keep away, leaving her secluded and free to move about the complex as she pleased.

She had found the attic cold and drafty, with gaps in the roof. But, Helena was used to living in such places. She was a vagabond herself, always moving, always keeping one eye on the road in front of her and the other focused unblinkingly on the one behind. It was all part of the complicatedly delicate ritual of staying alive. One that she practiced devoutly everywhere she went. And, by midnight, she had finished searing the protection sigils into the wood grain and had barred the door with a ring of salt. A few words of Latin, and she was ready to get her normal four hours of sleep.

She knelt and began tightly rolling up her sleeping bag, when suddenly the Sex Pistols began to blare seemingly out of nowhere. Helena scrambled to find the source of the noise, finally locating her cellphone tucked in her boot. Recognizing the number with and anxious inhale, she answered hurriedly, "Yes?"

"Good morning, Helena." Jake's cool voice called out to her.

She cringed inwardly and muttered, tone overly sharp, "Don't call me that. No one calls me that anymore."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then, "Do you have it?"

Helena did not answer immediately. She blinked a few times, confused. Jake was not acting like himself. He did not sound like himself. His voice was impatient and haughty. His words were blunt and stern. There was no joking with her, no teasing. No warmth or sense of familiarity. He sounded like a distant stranger, not the man who had taught her how to stay alive the past nine years. She swallowed tightly, "No. Not yet. "

More silence.

"But, I'll get it." She added quickly, "I'm in Atlanta… I'm close."

"Good." He said flatly, "We can't afford to wait much longer. We're running out of time. Things are getting worse."

"I know." Helena let out a shaky breath, "I know—"

"No." Jake snapped, his voice suddenly full of venom, "I'm not sure you do! There is a darkness rising Helena! I know you feel it. The pull. You feel it just like I do. _Like all of us do._"

"Jake, I—"

"They're giving in Helena." His tone darkened, softening to a whisper, "More and more of them. We are running out of time faster than ever. I thought if anyone would understand how dire the situation is, it would be you! Tell me, how much time do you have left?"

Her lips began to tremble and she struggled to find her voice, "Less than two months."

"We need this Hel," He pushed, "_You_ need this. Get it done."

"Yes." Helena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "I will. I'll finish it. I swear."

"Good." Jake's voice returned to its even tenor, "When you have the book, you bring it to me. Do you understand? _Directly_ to me."

She hesitated, her gut churning violently, "Yes."

There was a _click _and he was gone.

Helena sat back on her heels, starring at the date glaring back at her from her phone's glassy screen. Jake's harsh words were still echoing around her skull, but he was right. She was almost out of time.

She stood, her sense of purpose renewed as she pulled on her black riding jacket, zipping it up to her throat and buttoning the collar. She had to focus on what she had to do now. On what she had to do once she had the book. On how her life was about to change. All their lives were. She had a job to do. Their salvation was at her fingertips.

The past would have to wait.


	3. Chapter 2

_****Note to the Reader! Important! PLEASE READ!****_

_**The Prologue and Chapter 1 have been updated (6/14/2015). Please re-read if you have not already. Important details have been added.**_

_Constantine: A Long Way Down_begins where Episode 13: "Waiting for the Man" (sadly, the final episode of the series) left off.

This story is rated "T" for violence, strong language, and some sexual content. Some later chapters maybe rated "M" for mature and graphic content.

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

The exhaust pipes of the Sportster Forty-Eight screamed down the rough road, winding its way to the place that, these days, Helena only visited in her nightmares.

The stormy paint of the Harley gleamed in the sun that streaked through the overgrown trees as the Old Mill House came into view, its ancient wheel still frozen in place. Helena sent earth flying from under her back tire as she came to an abrupt halt, a good fifty feet back. She slammed the kickstand down and dismounted, still in the shadow of the vegetation. Purposefully not looking at the building, she bent down and rummaged in her saddlebag for her knife. Once found, she clipped the double edged blade's sheath onto the back of her belt and pulled down her jacket to conceal it. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned.

Her heart was hammering in her chest. She felt sick to her stomach. An overwhelming sense of foreboding instantly swallowed her as she opened her coal black eyes and fixed them squarely on the wooden doorway.

Old thoughts echoed around her skull. Dark thoughts. Memories that she had tried to bury deep had begun clawing their way back to the surface at the sight of the old homestead.

"_Please." _Helena could hear herself begging him, her voice raw with fear, _"Please John! Please don't! Don't let them take me!" _

She could still feel the fingers digging into her skin as her heels dug into the dirt. The Society men, clad all in black, dragged her towards the waiting van. And she could still see him standing there.

John Constantine.

His back was to the Old Mill House door. The collar of his trench coat had been pulled up against the rain. His dark eyes focused directly on her as he watched them take her, his jaw clenched tight in a scowl.

"_Constantine!" _She had screamed to him, pleading. The cold rain turned to steam on her blistering skin, _"No! Please! Please! John! Please! John! JOHN!" _

He had just stood there, his body ridged as she fought, thrashing and kicking like the devil she was. Father McCann had stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on the mage's drenched shoulder.

"_NO!" _ She had screamed like they were murdering her there and then, _"NOO! NOOO! JOHN! JOHN!" _

Helena let out a shaky breath, steam rising from her lips in the Georgia heat as she blinked boiling tears from the glowing embers of her eyes. A fresh rage filled her chest as the memories faded back and the present came crashing down on her. She squared her shoulders and collected herself. Striding forward boldly, she passed the rusty old truck that appeared to have gone unmoved in the last decade.

She approached the door cautiously, gingerly placing her hand against the wood grain. "Remember me, old friend?" She addressed the stones and mortar gently, "It's been a while." And, as if answering her, the lock suddenly unlatched and the door slid open welcomingly. Helena smiled weakly to herself, muttering under her breath, "I wish I could say I missed you too."

She stared at the threshold numbly, struggling to will her feet to enter. The world beyond was dark. An empty void, passed which was as much a mystery as the day Helena had first stood at this doorstep. Back then, the mystery of it had held a sense of wonder, fueled by a spark of childish curiosity.

John Constantine had been Helena's white rabbit. She had been Alice, chasing blindly after him. Unaware she had fallen down the rabbit hole until it had been too late, she had been thrown mercilessly into a world of nightmares.

And, then abandoned in the dark, all alone and unwanted.

She took a deep breath to steel herself and then pushed forward into the waiting abyss, but the instant her boot crossed the sill, her entire body became charged with an unseen energy.

At first she was frozen, every muscle locked tight in place. Helena could feel the streams of electricity coursing through her skin, and down into her deep tissue and bone. It was not an all together an unpleasant feeling, like dozens of hands had appeared and latched on to every inch of her flesh, dominant and unmistakably male in origin. Whoever had cast the warding was no amateur, she was instantly certain of that. It was an unyielding magic, accompanied by a vaguely familiar sensation.

Helena was momentarily overtaken by déjà vu, but pushed it aside as the spell's grip tightened vehemently, stating boldly that she would not enter. She began to struggle against it as the pressure became painful. But, the more she fought, the stronger the field's hold on her became, until all at once she was thrown backward violently, tumbling end over end into the dirt.

The door slammed shut behind her.

Slowly, Helena picked herself up, sighing heavily and brushing the dust off the dark denim of her jacket, "Well…that's new." Irritated, she glared at the Old Mill House as a bemused smirk touched her lips. She strode back to the doorway, pushing up her sleeves as she went, "Have it your way, then."

She rotated her head on her shoulders calmly, popping her spine back into place and loosening her muscles. She rubbed her hands together, and then held them out in front of her with her palms facing the sky. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, her gaze was serene and resolute.

"_I, Helena Saint,_" She declared firmly, "_am a friend to this house._" She took another deep breath in through her nostrils and out through her lips, "**_Sum amico huic domui. __Ancor,_ _Anacor. Candones helosi_ _et vos eleutis phugori._**"

The lock shivered and the metal distorted. The latch suddenly burst free, the wood splintering as the door flew open, slamming into the wall behind it with brutal force. "Sorry." She whispered as she entered again, patting the door frame soothingly, "I never did have much of a gentle touch when it comes to spells."

Inside was cool, still, and eerily silent. The air was stale and thick with dust. Helena held out her palm and instantly a small flame bloomed to life in between her fingertips, chasing the dark away as she made her way down the entryway. It took her a moment to remember where the switch was, but she quickly found it and flipped the handle up, extinguishing her light with a clench of her fist. Instantly, the chamber was flooded by the light of dozens of antique bulbs in cobwebbed brass fixtures. She moved to the railing slowly, surveying the room below. The main chamber itself appeared far too large to fit, if you were to measure it by the outside of the mill, but Helena new that nothing in this place was what it seemed. She knew that just beyond that far door was a labyrinth a chambers and portals that went on endlessly. This place was more than just a vault of spells.

It was a nexus of magic.

The walls where made of rough cut stone. On one side, they were covered with shelves overflowing with books, volumes, scrolls, and tomes; dotted among which were odds and ends from all corners of the occult. On the other, there was a small seating area surrounding the vacant fireplace, outlined by antique leather sofas. There was a small kitchen with cast iron stove along the opposite wall. The wooden floors were worn, unpolished, and covered with moth eaten Persian rugs. And, in the center of it all, were the jammed gears of the wheel. They reached from the floor to the ceiling, and had been turned into a makeshift table, surrounded by rickety chairs and covered with a mess of papers.

Helena sighed deeply, "Home, sweet home."

She descended the winding staircase tentatively, each step heaver than the last. Nothing had changed. The shadows remained in the corners, making her second guess her periphery. Piles of manuscripts were still littered everywhere. There were still stains of soot on the carpets around the hearth. Even the air smelled the same. She ran her hands along the mahogany spine of the nearest sofa, fingers coming away coated in filth. She held them to the light, examining the residue intently when she saw movement in the background. Her eyes instantly flitted up, locking on the dated mirror above the fireside.

She watched the man's reflection as he fidgeted on the couch, her gaze dropping to the empty cushion and back again before she remembered the mirror's enchantment. This particular looking glass reflected the past. What she was seeing had already happened.

Helena watched him squirm where he had sat. His skin was pale and clammy, glistening with sweat that had soaked through his ratty white shirt. His short hair was rung with moisture, and track marks were clearly visible at the crook of each arm. He looked up from his shaking hands, and her eyes met his in the mirror.

Her heart skipped a beat. "Oh…" She breathed quietly, "Gary Lester. You poor bastard."

She had barley recognized him, but there was no doubt in her mind that that was him. Ten years and heavy drug use had changed his body, but not his eyes, and Helena would recognize them anywhere. She could still remember them looking over at her from across the table, warm and smiling with a guitar in his lap, as he and John matched lyrics to cords. But, it had been the way he had looked at the mage after that had made them truly memorable.

Gary Lester had always followed John Constantine around like a dog drooling after his master. He had worshiped the ground that Constantine had walked on, looking at him like he was the second coming.

Shaking her head forlornly at the phantom in the mirror, she turned away, muttering to herself, "What did he do to you?"

Moving swiftly towards the massive shelves and their priceless contents, her eyes scanned the spines of the countless volumes. The collection had certainly grown since the last time she had perused these titles. She passed the original Key of Solomon, the tattered Grimoire of Merlin, and the Grimorum Arcanorum, but not what she had come for.

Curious, she paused momentarily at the still beating, black heart encased in the glass jar etched with Enochian warding. She could feel the evil pulsing off if it with every pump. "Fallen angel, huh?" She murmured, "How did you manage to get your hands on that, Jasper?"

She continued on, searching, and growing more on more impatient. She took a step back as she stumbled upon the golden Helm of Nabu, making sure not to touch it as she shuffled through a stack of loose papers piled beside it. She pulled book after book from the shelf, flipping through the pages before tossing them aside. She sighed heavily, clearly frustrated, "Alright, Winters! Where the hell did you put it?"

"Is there something I can help you find, Luv?"

Helena froze, her heart stopping mid beat. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and a shiver suddenly ripped down her spine. Her eyes widened, staring unseeingly down at the spell book in her hands. And, for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

She knew that voice.

As long as she lived, Helena would never forget it. Deep and gravely, that thick English accent could seduce a nun. It dripped with a pride and egotism that made it oddly sensual and alluring. It both charmed you into submission, and demanded your compliance. Both of which his target would be more than happy to offer him, if it ment earning his favor.

She closed the book with a violent snap, forcing herself to inhale sharply. She closed her eyes tightly before letting it out, her face turning to stone as she dropped the book onto the pile. Slowly, she turned.

He was just standing there in front of the jammed gears, looking at her as though his finding her here were the most natural situation in the world. His head was tilted slightly as he studied her with his dark eyes, a shock of blonde hair sticking up in all directions on his head. His slender mouth was set in a bemused, arrogant smirk. A day's growth of rough stubble on his chin.

In ten years, he had not changed in the least.

"John Constantine." She stated, careful to mask the emotion in her voice with contempt as she stepped forward, pointing at him playfully, "Aren't you suppose to be locked up in the Bug House?"

He grinned at her toothily, chuckling to himself as he took a stride towards her, "What can I say? I'm a hopeless case… Bloody shrinks didn't know what to do with me."

His eyes traveled up and down her body, scrutinizing every curve as he sized her up. They locked with hers, his expression turning devilish.

Helena knew that look.

"It seems you have me at a disadvantage, Luv." Constantine purred, resting his hands on his hips, "You clearly know me, but I don't seem to know you."

Helena frowned at him, her jaw clenching so tight she thought her teeth might crack. She took another step forward, keeping her black eyes on his, "You don't recognize me?"

"Should I?" He asked bluntly.

Her head snapped back, as though he had struck her, and his grin faltered. Stepping to the side, he went on casually, "It's funny…Because, I'd like to think I'd remember a pretty little bird like you."

"Funny," Helena agreed, spitting at him viciously, "Because, I do remember you."

Her acidic tone caught his attention. His expression darkened dangerously. "Who are you?" Constantine demanded, "Why are you here?" He stopped abruptly in his tracks, looking at her disdainfully, his tone cold and even, "And for that matter… How the bloody hell did you get in here?"

Helena did not answer him right away. She continued to stare him down callously, running her tongue along the points of her canine teeth. She angled her body so that she was facing him directly, lording the answer over him, "Isn't it obvious?"

Constantine straightened abruptly, tensing as his instincts screamed at him. He knew instantly that he was in danger, throwing his hands up in front of him. But, before he could utter a syllable, Helena's voice thundered through the chamber, "_**Sniahc ni mih dnib!**_"

Fire burst from her fingertips. Red hot flames shot forcefully out into the air in front of her, swirling, solidifying, and cooling, until they formed dark iron chains. They flew to Constantine like magnets, throwing him backward, and clinging to his body as he landed hard on the floor. They wrapped around his legs like pythons, starting at his ankles, lashing his hands to his hips, and locking his elbows to his sides.

He grunted in protest as Helena sauntered over, looking down at him with a pleased grin on her striking face, "I've been here before."

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	4. Chapter 3

_Constantine: A Long Way Down_begins where Episode 13: "Waiting for the Man" (sadly, the final episode of the series) left off.

This story is rated "T" for violence, strong language, and some sexual content. Some later chapters maybe rated "M" for mature and graphic content.

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**Chapter 3: **

"Reverse magic, eh?" Constantine huffed, looking up at her haughtily from the floor, "Haven't seen that in a while. You a student of Zatara, then?"

"As a point of self preservation," Helena told him coolly as she bent down, still smirking proudly at her handy-work, "I actively avoid the entire Zatara family. As you do, I'm sure. After your ill-minded fling with his precious daughter."

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, "The man's not my biggest fan, true enough. Still, reverse magic isn't exactly a common practice anymore. There are very few magicians that still use it. And, I have to say, you do pack a helluva punch."

"And, two of those magicians are here, in this room." She elaborated, tilting her head as she looked at him, "Let's not forget, you're quite accomplished yourself."

He struggled against his bonds, "Yet, here I am. On the bloody floor."

Helena's grinned widened, "Yes, you are."

Her eyes traveled up his body, from where the chains tangled in his black pants, to his stark white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the crook of each arm. "I think you're losing your touch, Johnny-boy. Getting a little slow on the draw, in your _old _age."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Luv." He sneered at her arrogantly, "Don't count me out just yet."

She nodded slowly, considering him before pressing on, "Where is John Dee's lost diary? I know it's here, somewhere in this god-forsaken place."

Constantine scowled, his voice suddenly gruff and throaty, "And, why exactly would you need something like that?"

"That's not really your concern, is it?" She growled, "But, if you tell me, I might just let you live."

He nodded to himself slowly, contemplating her offer, before indicating for her to come closer with a jerk of his head. Helena bent forward, and he let out a heavy sigh, looking her in the eyes as he sat forward, "Sod off."

She sat back on her heels, shaking her head and grinning fiendishly to herself. She had been hoping he would say that, "Have it your way then."

"John?"

Helena's head snapped towards the source of the call; soft, confused, and clearly frightened. Her gaze instantly locked on the woman standing in the doorway, and in that split second, her heartache multiplied until she thought her chest would collapse in on itself. Her ribs sucked in by the black hole in her center. She took in the woman's slender frame, her luscious curls, and her flawless skin. Her jewel toned eyes wide with horror as she looked at them with surprise, her plump lips agape with shock. She was beautiful.

She was innocent.

Jealously, vicious and intense, suddenly tore through her. The blackness inside her threatened to overtake her wholly as it ripped through her consciousness, pushing her aside as it sprinted towards the surface. Helena forced it back down, wrestling to stay in control of her body as she slowly stood, hissing, "Who the hell are you?"

"Zed!" Constantine shouted to the woman desperately, his voice suddenly raw with genuine fear, "Run!"

Helena was on her before she was even through the door. Fisting her hand in the other woman's hair, she yanked her head back brutally. "Sorry, _Zed_," She snapped in her ear bitterly, "Didn't anyone ever tell you? You can't out run the Devil."

She spun around, throwing Zed forcefully onto the ground next to the magician, glaring at the two of them crossly. "New plan." Helena spat at him, "Tell me where the diary is, and I won't kill your _girlfriend_."

Constantine was now bursting with rage, struggling frantically against the chains that held him in place, "I swear to God, when I—"

"_**Mih gag!**_" Helena cried, thrusting her finger at the sorcerer's mouth. His dark tie swiftly flew up, enclosing around his lips tightly so that the rest of his threat was muffled.

She bent back down to his level, her expression still in her fury. "Let me explain something to you, John. While it would give me great pleasure to slit your throat here and now, I have no desire to kill her. Despite what you think you know about me, I do not enjoy killing innocents. But, make no mistake, I am not leaving here without that book. And, if that means I have to flay her alive in front of you to get it, then I will. So do us all a favor, tell me where John Dee's lost diary is, and I will leave you _both_ in peace."

She took a deep breath to calm her increasingly violent urges, "_**Hturt eht kaeps**_." She waved her hand in front of him and the tie dropped back to his chest.

He glared at her, still huffing with anger.

"Why are you doing this?" Zed asked meekly, pulling herself closer to Constantine. He mirrored her the best he could, shielding her from the intruder.

Helena looked to her, and a stab of guilt pierced her abdomen, digging up under her ribcage. Her human half surged forward abruptly, forcing the demon back down. "I don't have a choice." She told her gravely, "Not anymore."

She reached behind her and pulled the knife from its sheath, pointing the blade at Zed, "So, what's it going to be John?"

He glared at her with hatred smoldering in his brown eyes, his mouth twitching in loathing. "The blasted mirror," He spat at her, "There's a safe. Jasper would've kept the diary in there."

"Good choice."

Helena stood and strode towards the mirror above the empty fireplace, blade still clenched tightly in her hand. Gary Lester had disappeared from the glass, leaving the refection of the room empty and dark as she stopped before it, her eyes scrutinizing the ornate frame for any king of opening: a key hole, or a seam. But, she saw none.

She took a step closer, running her fingers along the edge were the frame met the wall. No opening. No seam. No hinge. No safe.

Helena grimaced to herself, perplexed. She shifted back to the silver surface of the glass face, and nearly stumbled over backwards at what she saw.

Her fifteen year old self, young and naïve, was sprawled out on the sofa with her bare feet resting in the lap of a much younger John Constantine. He had a lit cigarette dangling from his up turned lips, and a glass of whiskey in his hand as he talked to her animatedly. And, she was laughing. She was smiling at him like a love-sick school girl.

Which, Helena admitted to herself begrudgingly, she had been.

She could remember that feeling he gave you when his focus was solely on you. It made you feel warm inside. Special. Like you mattered. Until John Constantine had come along, Helena had never felt that feeling before. Nor had she felt it since.

She hissed at the reflection, jerking backward angrily and turning away. Her stomach did a flip. She felt like she was being punished. Like the universe had decided to throw it all back in her face, making her watch as she made her biggest mistake all over again. Hell, maybe she was. It is not like she did not deserve it.

She glanced at Constantine, still struggling and fuming as he glared at her, before she turned back to face the past again.

He was teaching her a card trick. Making the Queen of Hearts vanish and re-appear with a flick of his wrist, her younger self squealing with delight and begging the mage to show her how to do it herself. He shook his head, teasing her.

Helena could remember that night. It had been the night before everything had gone to shit.

On cue, her younger self started to cough. Softly at first, it built until she was shaking all over. Her bones visibly began shifting under her skin as she stumbled off the couch and unto the floor. John quickly dropped down beside her, frantic, clutching her to his chest as she convulsed, her eyes rolling back into her head and blood spilling from her mouth.

That was when the idea struck her. She knew how to open the safe.

She turned on her heel, striding forcefully over to her hostages and squatting down so that her eyes were level with theirs. She briefly glanced over Zed's terrified face before locking her eyes on John's. She grinned at him evilly, "You want to open it? Or should I?"

"Go to Hell!" Constantine shrieked at her venomously, his body barely able to hold his rage as he glowered at her.

Instantly, Helena's grin disappeared.

She lunged forward, clasping onto his jaw with iron like fingers and digging her nails into his skin as she pulled him to her. Their faces were only inches apart. Her lips trembling with renewed hatred, she pressed the edge of her blade to his throat, "I'll see you there."

"No!" Zed screamed loudly, springing forward with her hands out stretched to stop her.

With the flick of her wrist, Helena sent Zed tumbling across the floor by some unseen force, slamming audibly into the gears and knocking over one of the chairs with a thud.

"I know a lot more than card tricks now." She told him, not even bothering to look up. She increased pressure on the knife and Constantine winced, blood streaking down his neck, "You should be proud."

Helena pulled away and stood, taking a moment to sneer down at him in disgust, before returning to the mirror.

She held the dagger aloft in front of her and took a deep breath, "_**I call upon the spirit of this house. Hear me. By the blood of the apprentice, I command thee open, and reveal thy truths. **__**De Cruinne-ce agus Akasha seall me do solas.**_"

She thrust to knife forward, and a single drop of blood rolled down the blade and into the air. The red bead hung there, weightless, before smoothly floating to the mirror's surface. The silver glass rippled like mercury, and then vanished in an instant.

Helena reached into the empty frame and withdrew a small black book. She could not withhold the sigh of relief that escaped her as her fingers at last gripped the leather spine. The glass reappeared as quickly as it vanished, as she flipped through the faded pages, perusing the untidy scrawl and intricate sketches. "Finally…" She breathed.

"Careful with that, luv." Constantine growled, "You have no idea what that book can do."

Helena shut the diary gently, turning to smirk crookedly at him, "Oh, I am well aware of what's in this book."

"So…" His expression darkened, "You're with the Brujeria, then?" He shook his head, "I should have known with that winning personality of yours."

"The _what_?" She questioned, stepping towards him, "I have no idea what you're going on about."

"Ah," He laughed bitterly, "Of course you don't. And I'm guessing that you want that book for some ballox cause, too?"

She frowned, kneeling next to him, "You're sounding pretty paranoid there, John. Maybe you should have stayed in the Looney-bin."

"I think that you and I both know that crazy is relative." He grinned at her morbidly, "And it's not really paranoia if there's somebody after you, ain't it?"

"Doesn't surprise me." She regarded him closely, her frown deepening, "You were always so good at pissing people off."

"That I am, luv." He scoffed at her wickedly, "That I am. Particularly, when it comes to women like yourself, it would seem. I mean, I never really understood the female way of thinking. I spend one night with a woman, and I'm supposed to remember her from here to eternity? But, between you and me, you're all not that memorable…"

"Constantine!" Zed warned, but he continued.

"In fact, they're really all the same." He pressed, "A smile, a couple of drinks, and some smooth talk and you all just spread your—"

Without warning, he found himself flat on his back, his head slamming into the floor so hard he saw stars.

Helena straddled his chest. She glared down at him, pinning his shoulders with her knees, and her hand wrapped around his throat. She leaned down, nose to nose with the man who betrayed her, who had ruined her life, and who did not have the decency to remember it.

She felt him swallow thickly under her palm. "I," She whispered to him dangerously, "am not one of your whores!"

He raised his head, pushing up against her hold, "You keep telling yourself that."

She tightened her grip, and he collapsed back, gasping.

Helena could not help but think about how easy it would be. All she would have to do is squeeze a little harder, and this would all be over. His brown eyes were glued to hers, staring up at her defiantly. She could end it. Just a little more pressure…

The blackness inside began snaking it its way through her mind, whispering to her seductively. "_Burn," _it coaxed, "_BURN!"_

She could feel the heat in her body rising, staring in her core and rushing through her extremities. The knife in her free hand began to glow; the leather handle began to smoke as the blade quickly turned from silver to red, and from red to blinding white. Steam rose from her lips is sharp puffs as she stared fiercely down at him, her black eyes suddenly coming to life like embers in a furnace.

Constantine's eyes widened in surprise. He could feel the heat pouring off her and pressing into his throat. Sweat began to bead of his skin as the extreme warmth began to build inside of him. He began to pant, unable to fill his sizzling lungs with air.

Helena squeezed harder.

"_Please." _She could hear herself begging him on that day, _"Please John! Please don't! Don't let them take me!" _ The darkness inside adding to the chorus,_ "Burn. Burn him! BURN!" _

"You let them take me." Helena whispered to him, her voice distant and infuriated, "You're the reason… _You_… That I'm like this!"

"_Burn him!" _

Constantine's brows furrowed in confusion. "Wha…?" He rasped, still struggle under her, trying to escape the fire building inside him. His thoughts became hazy and disjointed.

"You gave me to them!" Helena shrieked, raising the white hot dagger above her head threateningly, "You just stood there and watched!"

"_BURN HIM!" _

"JOHN!" Zed screeched, leaping to her feet.

"_AAAHHH_!" Helena screamed, filling the chamber with the sound of unbridled rage as she brought the knife down.

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